Chapter 5

Tony should have been on seventh heaven after that experience. But one thing nagged at him.

“Why ... why did you kiss my feet?”

“I am parachi, you are karaiyar. For centuries my people have prostrated themselves before you.”

“No! I don’t believe in the caste system. We are equals.”

“I was only teasing.” She grinned. “Your parents were telling me how the community here thinks of caste. I did not tell them, but actually they are stuck in the eighties. In Sri Lanka we have moved on. The rebels did not believe in caste, and did a lot to stamp it out.”

“Really?”

“The rebel leaders were karaiyar, like you. You know that your people started out as mercenaries, right? It was the Sinhalese kings who paid for them to come from India. But the karaiyar are not the highest caste, they are the second highest,” said Manjula.

“Who were the highest, then?”

“They are called the vellalas. They have history with your people. During colonial times, the karaiyar got rich sucking up to the Europeans. They had so much money they bought up whole fleets of fishing boats. Lower castes had to pay them rent to use the boats and earn the money back by doing the work of fishing. Your ancestors had imperial patronage and did not do much work. The vellalas were jealous. They called your people the ‘boat-owning caste’.” She giggled. Tony made a face.

“During the war the vellalas looked down on the rebels and even fought against them. So they made a big deal of equality. They recruited pariah soldiers — they even tried to recruit me. They made sure anyone could go to any temple. Soldiers could marry into any caste. I went to the same schools as vellalas, and teachers had to teach me. Now it is possible for me to be a doctor. Your people here are a bit behind the times.”

Tony reflected on the sociological irony.

“You said you like a girl to be submissive,” Manjula reminded him. “And ... all my life I have been the leader. My little cousins depended on me. All the other children at school, sometimes even some teachers, depended on me. Here I have to constantly navigate this foreign culture. Sometimes I think my ancestors had it simpler. They did as they were told, no matter how dirty, they prostrated themselves, and they did not have to make decisions and plan.”

“So you like to submit, because it means you don’t have to be responsible?”

“Well not really. I know I am always responsible. But I like to pretend. I like to be dirty. And besides...”

“What?”

“It is worth doing these things just to see the look on your face. I have never seen anyone so happy. It makes me feel very good inside that I can do that for you.”

Tony hugged her. “Everything you do makes me happy.”

They settled into a routine. Over time, Tony rutted in a variety of places; her forehead, between her breasts, her belly, even on the crack of her ass, if not actually in it. Manjula loved the sense of being marked as property. She felt particularly docile, even kittenish, after his fingers had been inside her.

They didn’t get to do this as often as they might have liked. Their homework burden was growing, as were their other activities.

Manjula had been serious about Tony starting an exercise program. She joined him at the gym, worried that the high-calorie Western diet would erode her figure. Tony liked ogling her in yoga pants, but was dismayed to find that she was in much better shape than he was.

The non-profits Tony had contacted advised him against unpaid internships, but they did ask him for volunteer help — cleaning up their databases, fixing bugs on their websites, and the like. In addition to the time he spent on that, he had signed up with one of the political parties active on campus, and now sometimes went to rallies or wrote articles.

Tony reflected that he wouldn’t even have had the level of energy to sustain this pace without the joy that Manjula had brought to his life. For her part, she volunteered as a math tutor, and had also become active in the foreign students’ association.

Lacking the time for long play dates in person, Manjula made do by sending Tony nude selfies, sometimes re-enactments of poses from his Playboy collection. He would have liked to send her a dick pic in return, but didn’t dare. They both kept each other informed about their masturbatory activities, sending each other racy texts at odd hours of the day or night.

Nevertheless, Tony found himself hungering for some real quality time with Manjula. He phoned her up one evening.

“Hi angel, do you think you could get Saturday free?”

“I have a lot of homework.”

“So do I. But I want to take you to Toronto. We can rent a car.”

“Why?”

“We need to take some time for leisure, otherwise we won’t be as productive the rest of the week.” He’d guessed that would be the best argument to persuade Manjula. She finally agreed, on the condition that they leave early morning and return by early evening.

It was a beautiful morning. The green of summer was giving way to the bright colours of fall. Yellow and orange decorated the roads. Manjula stared out the windows spellbound, never having seen autumn before.

She was also unprepared for the sheer number of cars on the roads.

“So in Canada ... does every family have a car?”

“Most of them, yes. Many even have two.”

“What an amazing country,” she sighed.

Tony wondered if she’d still feel that way if they got stuck in traffic. But, luckily, they did not. He pulled into Rouge Park. Hand in hand, they strode into the forest of tall Canadian maple trees. Far from the roads, they could hear only the noises of squirrels running, a stream flowing nearby, the wind whistling in the pines.

Tony loved walking in the forest. The only thing he found more beautiful than the trees was Manjula. As the weather cooled, she no longer showed off her legs in short miniskirts. But she was no less a feast for the eyes in skinny jeans and a denim jacket, and many were the photos he took of her.

“We don’t have a huge amount of nature here in the city, but we try,” he said modestly.

“It is very beautiful,” said Manjula. “It is not the same as Sri Lanka, but it is very peaceful. I can see why you enjoy it here. And you do not have to worry about dengue fever or snakebite.”

“I haven’t spent as much time outdoors as I should,” Tony began. “But there are lots of things people do.” He told her about camping, about water skiing, about canoeing, kayaking, hiking, fishing.

“It sounds like you people have a lot of fun. Nobody in Sri Lanka can afford these things,” she said wryly. “If you are in a boat, it is because your job is a fisherman. And nobody would sleep in a tent if they had money to afford a proper house.”

Perhaps that was why, Tony thought, his own parents had little interest in the Canadian outdoors. He’d had to beg them to so much as take him on a nature trail.

“But how do you stand the cold?” she asked. “It is fifteen degrees outside.”

“That’s pretty good for this time of year,” Tony replied. “In the winter we can bottom out at twenty below,”

“Oh, I will die,” she said. “How do you stand it?”

“Kids have the most fun of all. They build little forts from the snow. They pack the snow into balls and throw them at each other.” He told her about skating, about hockey, about tobogganing, about skiing.

“Do you do this — this skiing?”

“I haven’t tried it yet. Maybe we could do it together, this winter?”

“Maybe,” she said, but it was clear to Tony the cold was getting to her. They returned to the car.

“How about a Sri Lankan restaurant for lunch?”

“What?”

“You didn’t know? There are more Tamils in Toronto than in Jaffna itself, now. Lots of restaurants.”

“My village does not have restaurants. Rich people hire cooks to come to their homes. Poor people work as cooks.”

Before going to the restaurant, Tony showed her some of the many small Tamil grocery stores and take-outs in Scarborough. Manjula was shocked. “They have a better selection of spices than we have in our village!” she exclaimed.

“Toronto is two percent Tamil,” Tony replied. “I think in all of Sri Lanka, only Colombo has a larger Tamil population. Wait till you see the restaurants.”

Manjula had never actually been to a full-service restaurant before, only small cafeterias. She wasn’t prepared for the sheer number of dishes on the menu.

“They offer — all of these dishes?”

“Yup. You pick the ones you want, and they’ll bring them.”

Getting to stay seated while being served by a waiter was a staggering experience for her. Tony had to restrain her from going to the kitchen and offering to help.

“But they are bringing me food.”

“Yes, that’s their job.”

“But I am a parachi.”

“So? Your money — our money — is as good as anyone’s.”

“I never imagined I would ever have servants of my own,” said Manjula wonderingly. “How many places like this are there?”

“Thousands. Even the smallest town has at least one restaurant. People eat there a lot, just not when they’re in a hurry,” Tony explained.

Restaurant food wasn’t quite as good as homemade, but Manjula loved it, though she blanched when she saw the bill. Tony paid it before she had a chance to object.

They slurped ice cream in Nathan Phillips Square. They watched sidewalk performers on Yonge Street. Manjula gaped at the giant sculpture of flying birds in the Eaton Centre. She could not, of course, resist shopping again, but eschewed the expenses of Nordstrom’s and Holt Renfrew in favour of simpler, but no less sexy, fall outfits.

They followed the underground malls to the intersection of King and Bay, then went outside. Manjula was spellbound by the sight, an intersection with four of the city’s largest skyscrapers. First Canadian Place, Scotia Plaza, Commerce Court, Toronto Dominion Centre. They glittered like palaces, with gleaming glass doors, smooth marble floors, and flashing ticker lights giving everything a sense of importance.

“If you got a job as a quant, or a consultant, or an actuary, there’s a good chance you could end up working here,” he said.

Tony had never taken seriously the gag that tall skyscrapers are phallic symbols, but Manjula’s reaction made him wonder. The expression on her face, at any rate, was very similar to what she looked like when he was fingering her. His cock tingled a little at that thought.

“Kiss me,” said Manjula suddenly. She had never actually said that in so many words, but Tony was hardly going to refuse. The wind whipped coolly around her lips, making her warmth more precious than ever. They made out for a while, then went for Tim Horton’s legendary donuts and coffee.

Later on, Manjula was even more staggered by the Rogers Centre domed stadium.

“Fifty thousand people will come here to watch a sports match? That is half the population of our entire district.”

“Yes, baseball games can attract quite a lot of people.”

“Baseball? I thought you said the most popular sport was ice hockey.”

“It is, but they play at the Air Canada Centre...” On it went, one wonder after another. Manjula gawked at the newly legalized cannabis stores and daringly stomped on the glass floor of the CN Tower. She had never ridden a subway train before, nor a streetcar.

Nor had she ever eaten Chinese food, so Tony took her to his favourite restaurant in Chinatown. She was hesitant at first, but her reluctance vanished once the waiter pointed out several spicy Sichuan dishes, and helpfully brought over chili sauce.

“This entire neighbourhood is Chinese! It is like we are in China!” she remarked, munching away.

“Toronto has two other Chinatowns like this. And there are Chinese shops and restaurants all over.”

“White people do not mind?”

“They’re the first to go there. And not just Chinese — there’s Sri Lankan, Indian, Vietnamese, Italian, Portuguese ... you name it. Usually they’re not concentrated in one neighbourhood, but spread out all over.”

“So all these different peoples — live in the same places? Go to the same schools?”

“In Toronto yes. Where I grew up was more than ninety-nine percent white.”

“How did you survive that?”

“There were incidents” — his face flushed — “but all in all, it was okay.”

Manjula was having trouble processing this. One of the grievances that had led to war was Sinhalese families, in search of cheaper land, moving into once solidly-Tamil parts of the country, a process the Tamils dubbed “colonisation.” It was common to regard other communities, whether ethnic or religious, with deep suspicion. Her own village once had a sizable Muslim community, but the rebels had expelled them years ago. They weren’t regarded as Tamil, even though that was the language they spoke. The idea of everybody living side by side happily seemed a pipe dream to her.

She was in a thoughtful mood on the drive back to campus. “I had a wonderful time today,” she said dreamily.

“Me too.”

“But the real reason you brought me here was to show off Canada, was it not?”

There was no point in denying it. “That too.”

She sighed. “It worked. I understand the appeal of this country. I see why so many of our people have come here to live.”

“Do you think — do you think you could join them?”

“Part of me wants to. Not just so I could be with you. I see now that Canada has joys and wonders in its own right.”

Tony knew the word but was coming in there somewhere. He waited for it.

“But how can they leave their friends and family behind? How can you decide on a country so quickly? I have only been here a few weeks.”

“People in Sri Lanka marry after knowing each other a few weeks. Most immigrants to Canada have never visited before they come. They rely only on what they’ve been told. And almost everybody has family back in Sri Lanka, or in many other countries...”

He told her the history. The first wave of Sri Lankans who came in the 1980s, strangers in a strange land, were widely accused of being bogus refugees. They struggled to explain to employers what an A-level was. They worked at hamburger joints to put themselves through community college. They spent years living in tiny, roach-infested apartments until they could afford better. They were cut off from other friends and family who had stayed behind, or who had emigrated to Europe or Australia or India instead.

“I don’t think you should make the decision on my account. I think — if we are still together, after graduation, we can talk about getting married. But don’t stay here just for me. Stay only if that’s what you truly want. In fact it, need not be Canada. In finance, you could probably find your way to the U.S. or Britain.”

“But what about you?” she wondered.

“If we were still together after graduation, I’m sure we could find a city that both of us could be successful in. But I want you to think of your future. Be the best person you’re capable of becoming.”

“So that is my choice,” Manjula said. “To be a doctor in Sri Lanka, or a quant or whatever abroad.”

“To be a doctor, or not to be,” Tony half-muttered. “That is the question.”

As it happened, Manjula had studied Shakespeare too.

“Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of Sri Lankan poverty,” she quipped, “or to fill out immigration forms to flee a sea of troubles.”

Tony started to laugh. Inspiration had hit Manjula, and she continued, “to emigrate, to leave — ay, there’s the rub. For in that long exile, what loneliness may ensue, when we have shuffled off family and friends and familiarity?”

“Did you seriously make that up just now?”

“That undiscovered country, from which no immigrant returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of,” she finished.

“You really know that speech well,” Tony said.

“Actually I was thinking about this decision a few days ago, and it reminded me of this speech, so I looked it up.”

How typically Manjula. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, all he could manage while driving.

“I know you would like to paint me tonight” — painting being their euphemism for sexual activity, which they often amused themselves with by saying openly in front of others — “but I fear I cannot do much for you. I am so tired.”

They ended up cuddling in Tony’s bed, but going no further than kissing. Tony’s roommate found them fast asleep at only ten o’clock, quite early for university students on a Saturday night. Enjoying the side view of Manjula’s figure, he let them be.

Manjula prepared to leave early the next morning. An entire day without homework had to be made up for.

“I had such a lovely time yesterday.”

“Me too.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything, Manjula.”

“I ... I want you to share your browser history with me.”

“My — my full history?”

She nodded. “Uncensored. You can edit out your email and things like that. But you know what I really want to see.”

Tony felt trapped. “There are ... there are some things in there that might make you despise me.”

“Why? Have you looked at anything contrary to the laws of this country?”

“No, but—”

“I cannot promise you that I will ever do anything you have watched, or even like your watching it. But I can promise you that I will not hurt you.”

Tony looked at her. She was asking him to share his deepest, most perverted fantasies with her. This was an act of intimacy far beyond anything they’d done before.

Yet had he not, in a different way, asked her to change her life, to trust his judgment? Could he not do the same?